Stones taught me to fly

The modern age is pretty astounding when you think of it. Huge life-changing culture-altering world-shrinking things happen and we barely even notice anymore. I mean, take my great grandfather who was born in the late 1800's: he dug his basement out of the Nebraska sod with team of mules and it would take days by wagon to travel across the state to do business in the city. But for his 50th wedding anniversary*? He flew a jumbojet to Hawaii in a matter of hours. Air travel has become such a part of life that we totally take it for granted - yet 100 years ago, only a handful of people had ever lifted off the ground.

I'm reminded of that every time I take off. While some people are gritting their teeth, take-offs are when the magic happens for me. The engines roar, you're pushed back into your seat, the nose of the airplane points skyward and suddenly with a stomach-dropping woosh the rumble silences as the wheels leave the runway and you and 300 tons lift gracefully into the air. It's physics at work: aerodynamics and lift and 4,000 gallons of fuel, and it's incredible.

Then somewhere around 15 minutes in, after shaking our turbulent way through the wind and clouds climbing to cruising altitude, I realize that I hate flying. I'm trapped for the next several hours in a pressurized tube hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 mph with a bunch of annoying people and no leg room. Every jolt of turbulence brings to mind scenes from "Lost" or "Cast Away" and reminds me of things like metal fatigue. I mean, those enormous wings are hanging from the fuselage on the tarmac, and now, here 6 1/2 miles above the ground the fuselage is hanging from the wings. Have you ever really watched the things bending up and down? Really, what's to prevent them from snapping off save a few rivets?

I used to divert my attention by staring out the window and interpreting the features of the earth below, like a magnificent topo map writ large and in stunning detail. But window seats are no place to squeeze a 6'4" man for hours on end, so instead I now sit in the aisle where only one knee will get crushed by the reclining seat back in front of me (the other one is left to get smashed by the drink cart). I can usually still catch glimpses of passing clouds and enough of the ground to gauge where in the country we are. But lately all the people sitting in the window seats have been closing the shades, leaving me claustrophobic and completely without external reference to synch with the motion of the plane. If you're not going to look out the damn window, don't sit there! I want to know when the ground is getting close so I can steel myself for landing.

And then there's the landing. During take-offs you are majestically defying gravity, but landings are where you're surrendering yourself to it fully and hoping for the best. Plummeting from 35,000 ft to sea level in the course of 20 minutes, the turbulence returns, there are cross winds, runways of specific lengths surrounded by water or houses. Weird mechanical noises resonate through the cabin as landing gear (hopefully) is lowered, flaps extended and who knows what else, and I can't blare my music to distraction because I was forced to turn off my portable electrical devices. Little movements seem significant when I see the nearing horizon roll and our terrifying speed becomes increasingly apparent as the houses and cars whiz by below. 300 tons of metal and wiring and people and toothpaste and underwear are dropping out of the sky, hurtling with intent towards the looming ground.

I may take for granted my ability to be in New York in 6 hours, but I really never quite forget that only a hundred years ago, people were only riding horses and driving oxen, and those things rarely broke**.

*I think... I was young and may have the specific event wrong.
** Unless you're Colin.